


apples, cherries, pain

by velavelavela



Category: H.I.V.E. Series - Mark Walden
Genre: Concussions, Experimental Style, Extended Metaphors, Fairy Tale Style, Food, Non-Linear Narrative, Symbolism, blunt force trauma, literally idk man, that's what you're getting. thanks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29980446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velavelavela/pseuds/velavelavela
Summary: There sits a bowl of black cherries in the center of the kitchen island.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	1. 1

There sits a bowl of black cherries in the center of the kitchen island. It’s duly noted and it’s innocent. The flesh of the stone fruits is tough to the touch, smooth and whispery. The stems dash into the air like halfhearted brushstrokes on an otherwise deliberate painting of a room. Elsewhere are windows that run from the floor to the ceiling and have blinds like knives that can be pulled aside or to the top if one so wishes. The flowers that sit on the nightstand in the other room have wilted by now, but they were moon lilies. The cherries loom as toy soldiers would over an ant or a spider or two-- but there are no pests in the apartment, not even moths. There is something delicious about simply looking at the fruits. The moon lilies, were they flesh and blood, would counter the taut skin of the cherries as a juxtaposition of beautiful things. The ice outside is melting under a plush night sky filled to the brim with the cosmos. Condensation gathers on the window panes. the blinds are not drawn one way or the other but haphazardly scattered across the span of the windows and because of this the light is uneven. The bowl holding the cherries is a pale yellow painted mustard by the darkness. The cherries are smooth and whispery to the touch. The ice makes juice on the window. The moon lilies are crisp as dead leaves. Dead things are common here.


	2. 2

Each step feels like a crunch on shaky ice. The blood won’t come out of her slip, but it really never has before. There’s a red fading to brown across the silken abdomen that she can’t attribute to anything else if she tried. The washing will be ornery this time around. She’s woozy because she was knocked in the head by gravity, a man, and the edge of the counter. The slip is stained now, and she needs to wash it. She takes it off over her head with a groan and leans over the sink. In the mirror, her mouth is ruby red. She spits blood, runs hot water. In the meantime, she leans against the wall, presses her throbbing forehead to the wallpaper. It’s cool to the touch, helps just a bit. She’s having trouble thinking and thinking and

* * *

_ Once Upon A Time There Was A Family Tree That Had No Limbs And Only Three Members. The Three Members Consistently Hurt. One Day Came A Boy Who Thought He Could Fix Them. He Stumbled Beneath The Piles Of Leaves And Smears Of Lichen. He Tried To Climb Up. He Fell And Broke His Arm. _

* * *

She does not know how long she has spent just thinking, but she does know that it is time to move on. She balls up the slip and drops it in the sink full of water, turns the faucet off. She is done in here. When she returns to the breakfast nook she sees the bodies again and feels faint. She thinks her blood sugar is low. She braces a hand on the wall and leaves a smatter of blood as a path behind her to the fridge. Inside there is very little to eat because she is borrowing the place from her sister.

* * *

_ Before He Was Even Healed He Tried Again. The Tree Grew Taller And Taller With Each Handgrip And Footgrip. He Tried His Hardest To Reach Just The Lowest Member. After Hours Of Working And Breathing Hard He Was Able To Snatch Her.  _

* * *

She washed the cherries earlier with dainty hands, running them under the water as if they were her own children. She did not dare eat one until they were all clean, sitting in their bowl. She decided to save the first bite for the morning, a ritual she had performed since she was little. There was nothing else like something good to start the day, especially when you have nothing good to begin with. She washed the cherries and lolled them in her palms and placed them carefully in the pale yellow bowl. She scooted the bowl to the center of the island. She went to bed.

* * *

_ He Took The Lowest Member Home And Plucked Her Feathers And Bathed Her In A Basin Of Saltwater. It Was Nighttime And The World Was Asleep. He Slept With Her Tucked Neatly Under His Arm. The Other Members On The Tree Were Disturbed By The Imbalance Of The Trunk. _

* * *

Her vision levels onto the cherries. She takes a handful and presses them to her forehead. They wobble around against one another, but they are cold, and they feel good. Her head feels fleshy like swelling, and she should ice it, but she does not know where to get ice. She bends in half over the counter and presses her head into the bowl of cherries. Elsewhere there is a groan.

* * *

_ When The Other Members Found Out They Were Unhappy. The Middle Slid Down The Tree And Plopped Among The Roots. He Went To Find The Boy Who Took The Lowest And Hurt Him. _

* * *

After a moment of this, she realizes she has dribbled a puddle of blood onto the island’s wan tile. She steps back, whirling with the sudden movement, and sees the moon shining through the blinds. Picking her way through corpses, she crosses to the window. She heaves the blinds open and feels the infinitely colder glass with her palms. She lays her head against the glass. It hurts at first, the temperature seeping into her skin. She wants to shout and pull away. But if her brother taught her anything it was how to take care of herself after a fight.

* * *

_ The Lowest Woke Up To The Sound Of The Middle Sneaking Into The House. She Let Out A Deep Cry Because She Knew What It Meant To Have Family. The Boy Did Not. The Boy With The Broken Arm Snatched The Middle And Put Him Under The Sink. _

* * *

Something wicked in her wants to go to sleep. She figures that there’s a window in the bedroom too. She can drag the bed over, succumb to a rest. She deserves it. This time, when she makes her way across the room, her ankle catches a shoulder and she falls sprawled onto the hardwood. She stays here for a little while longer than she should and wonders if she could sleep right here. Her phone, a device she has forgotten until now, buzzes a foot away, by the fridge. She reaches with success, but the screen is shattered. All she can see is the first two letters of her sister’s name, a missed call or message. The light is panging through her eyes.

* * *

_ When The Middle Didn’t Return, The Highest Came Down Too. She Entered The House On Halloween When The Boy Wasn’t Home. The Lowest Chirped To See Her And Told Her Where The Middle Was. _

* * *

After a short amount of time wallowing on the floor, she somehow drags herself to her knees, crawls to the bedroom. Everything is fringed with darkness like an old photograph, but she keeps it together long enough to reach the bedroom and drag herself onto the bed. Finally, the nausea gets the best of her and she vomits onto the sheets beside her. The man who had been rendered unconscious in the bedroom reaches for his weapon.

* * *

_ The Highest Helped The Middle Escape. She Knew That There Was Only A Matter Of Time Before The Boy Returned, So The Lowest Took The Hand Of The Highest And Told Her A Secret. _

* * *

She is lucky enough to roll onto her back and see him out of the corner of her eye. A part of her wants him to shoot her. Her head is throbbing to her heartbeat and it’s growing harder and harder to think. But, she knows she’s not living for just one anymore. The other may be elsewhere, but she is no longer just her own person. She lets this thought drive her as she fumbles for something heavy on the nightstand. Luckily enough, the man seems to be in a similar foggy state as she. He bumbles, but he has a gun. Her hand finds the vase of rotting flowers.

* * *

_ The Boy Came Back To An Empty House. Fearing What Would Happen To The Lowest He Took An Axe To The Tree. He Knew Now That He Could Only Save One. _

* * *

It doesn’t take much force to kill someone with a blunt object. You just need repetition. She knows this, has always known this. She smashes the ceramic vase into his head until it grows cracks and he’s seizing. She is finally done. She hopes she’s not done for good. She still has cherries to eat, a sister to text back. A baby to think about. She has given up on the idea of the window. She lies back, naked but for her underwear, and succumbs.

* * *

_ When The Boy Arrived The Lowest Was There. She Had Nestled Up Higher To Avoid Returning To Him. The Boy Mistook Her For The Highest. He Began To Chop. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank youuu i wrote this at 2-3am. inspired by one of c's theories that the anastasia-elena-nero miscommunication was that anastasia and elena were twins and nero ordered an assassination on anastasia but accidentally killed elena. this is a slight twist where it's like, anastasia's apartment and elena's there but she looks like anastasia so yknow.
> 
> title comes from "home with you" by fka twigs


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